


How to Turn Off a Brain Circuit

by readingtoujours



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Image, Body insecurity, Emotional Crowley, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Supportive Crowley, Weight Issues, i really love these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readingtoujours/pseuds/readingtoujours
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't like the way he looks which is making him feel down. It takes a little while for Crowley to pick up on this but once he does... once he does, he does everything he can to make sure that Aziraphale feels okay again.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 90





	How to Turn Off a Brain Circuit

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I am not a nutritionist in any way, so many of the details in here about food are probably inaccurate. Also, I am in no way trying to diet shame -- I know diets are awesome for some people. 
> 
> I wrote this as a way of working through some personal stuff, and also because comfort fics are my favorites to write.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Aziraphale did not always have issues with how he looked. When he was shopping (which was almost never) he picked out clothes that were a size large because that was what fit him. He never thought anything of it; he picked out clothes that were his size. 

Recently, though… Recently he had started to feel… too big. The weight he was dragging around started to feel heavy. He was aware, all of a sudden, of how much room he took up. It started to feel like too much. More than he deserved to take up.

He had always been this size. He’d just not always been ashamed. 

He and Crowley, in fact, enjoyed making fun of humans who pursued fussy diets and gadget-filled workouts. Like right now:

He was sitting across from Crowley at his kitchen table. Aziraphale had a folded newspaper in his hands, while Crowley was bent over a sleek metallic phone, swiping his fingers all about the screen. Aziraphale hated fussing with modern technology, but Crowley felt the opposite. His argument for Aziraphale to use more technology usually included words like “integration” and “modern society.” Aziraphale preferred adding phone usage to the long list of things that made them different. 

“Angel, look at this,” Crowley said, tilting his screen towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale squinted -- the screen was so gosh darn tiny -- and read the words that were there.

“Keto diet?” he read aloud. Crowley turned his device back around and bent over it again. 

“Low-carb, high-fat,” Crowley mused. “Meant to put your body in a certain metabolic state. Though the only state I think it would put me in is insanity. I mean, imagine that. Breaking down all your food into its components and ticking off boxes as you eat to see if you’ve got too much of one thing or not enough of another.”

Aziraphale began to feel rather flustered. Those tick boxes sounded like exactly what he needed…

“It’s absurd,” Crowley continued, with a smirk. “Totally absurd.”

“It’s not a crime to want to be fit,” Aziraphale murmured, a mixture of defensive and ashamed. He felt as though Crowley had caught him in the middle of a crime -- as though Crowley had somehow tapped into the negative flow that was coursing through Aziraphale’s head. 

Crowley sensed Aziraphale’s prickly tone and tilted his chin down to get a good glance at Aziraphale over his tinted glasses. He certainly looked embarrassed, his cheeks pink and face flushed in a way that usually only happened when he got in trouble. Huh. Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of it now, but he mentally filed away this moment to revisit when he had more information. 

“No, it’s not,” Crowley agreed, pursing his lips.

Aziraphale grabbed his newspaper and began reading it zealously, all too eager to have the opportunity to hide his face. Crowley followed suit and went back to scrolling through his phone, though he promised himself when the time came he wouldn’t let Aziraphale’s strangeness slide.

***

Aziraphale and Crowley were sat at a small bistro in Paris. It was Aziraphale’s favorite. A few crooked streets away from the Seine with clusters of tiny tables in front that were barely big enough for two -- if Aziraphale had to spend his eternity anywhere, he’d choose this bistro. He’d choose this exact scene, actually: Crowley across from him wearing sunglasses, his hair pulled up in a bun, lolling in the chair, the sun pooling around them both, brightening the table. 

He could hear the lull of Paris around them, the clinking of dishes and the chatter from inside the bistro, Crowley’s soft breath across from him as he mulled through the menu. 

There was a menu in Aziraphale’s hands too. They were skimming the menu perfunctorily, even though they both knew their orders by heart -- 

Or at least Crowley thought he knew Aziraphale’s order by heart. 

“I’ll have the tomato soup, please,” Aziraphale said. Crowley cocked an eyebrow and looked at Aziraphale, who refused to look back. They handed their menus back to the waiter, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Crowley eyed Aziraphale.

“The tomato soup?” he asked. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes through the tinted lenses, but he imagined that they were flashing, his pupils drawn into tight diamonds. “Since when do you like soup?”

“Since always,” Aziraphale said, crossing his arms in front of himself. There were layers in his voice that Crowley picked apart -- hurt, defensiveness, something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He sighed.

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, not arguing, but not quite agreeing either. Aziraphale had that look again, the one Crowley had been trying to place. The one with the bright pink cheeks and the starkly pale face. But this time, it looked almost like -- it almost looked like he was going to cry… 

Crowley didn’t understand, but he certainly didn’t want Aziraphale to cry. He quickly changed the subject. It was a tactic he knew wouldn’t get past Aziraphale, a tactic that was sure to reveal to Aziraphale how little he wanted to see Aziraphale sad. Damnit. When had he gotten so soft? He wondered. He pushed this to the back burner too, next to the file of “Aziraphale faces” that was slowly getting thicker. 

He put his hand on the table, a very human and very middle school invitation for Aziraphale to hold his hand. Aziraphale took the bait, placing his hand on top of Crowley’s. Crowley tightened their hands, then rubbed his thumb across the back of Aziraphale’s palm. Aziraphale shuddered. 

“What a nice day,” Crowley gestured towards the sun with his head. Though what he meant was that it was nice to be there with Aziraphale, to have Aziraphale across from him, to be sitting in the warm afternoon sun at a bistro with a light breeze and the feeling that everything would be okay.

“It is nice,” Aziraphale agreed, though he was pale, and his voice was still lower than normal. 

Mentally, Aziraphale wasn’t quite with Crowley, though the contact in their hands was grounding him. He was thinking back to the article he’d managed to find out of one of the dusty books he always had lying around, one about eating healthy. It had a feature on soup, a food that apparently could keep you full and satiated for half the amount of calories that other foods of the same effect had. It sounded pretty good to Aziraphale. 

Hence his order. Which he didn’t think Crowley would comment on. But once he did -- all Aziraphale could think about was the way that Crowley always smirked when he read about the diets that humans were doing, the glint in his eye that only appeared when he was particularly amused by the stupidity of humans. 

Aziraphale could never tell Crowley about what he was doing. He simply couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to have that look centered on him… 

He blinked up at Crowley, whose head was cocked, staring at Aziraphale in a rather strange way.

“Are you with me, Angel?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry about that. I’m -- I’ve been feeling rather congested as of late.” 

He noticed that his soup had been delivered, as had Crowley’s complicated chicken something-or-other. He picked up his spoon and downed a huge swallow, then smiled at Crowley as if to show him that Aziraphale had ordered soup because he loved the way it tasted, thank you very much. 

“That’s why I got soup,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, latching onto his previous statement. “Because I was hoping it would help with my congestion.”

“I see,” Crowley said. He didn’t believe Aziraphale, which he had trouble hiding from his tone of voice, but he decided not to push the issue. Besides, the soup had stained Aziraphale’s lips a darker red than usual, making Aziraphale look like… look like the personification of everything good. Crowley wanted to pin him down and keep him there forever. Instead of letting the emotion flood his face, he stabbed a potato and began chewing. 

Crowley untangled their hands so he could devour the entire dish that was sitting in front of him. Whatever weirdness was in between them -- whatever was making Aziraphale pull all those faces -- Crowley hoped that he could find it and then promptly strangle it. 

A gloomy angel made everyone sad. Crowley most of all. 

***

Crowley was sitting on the couch, his long legs trailing in front of him. Aziraphale was perched on the cushions to his side, his shoulder up against Crowley’s shoulder. It was their only point of contact, but still, it felt intimate. 

Intimate enough that Aziraphale started wondering whether the width of his arm was a bother to Crowley.

He hated himself for worrying about that on a lazy Tuesday evening, hated that his brain was so centered on his weight. He wished he could forget about it for a while, forget about it long enough to prevent the sacredness of their Tuesday evening lounge session from being broken.

But it was already broken. So Aziraphale sat up. 

“Something wrong, Angel?” Crowley asked, sitting up too. 

“I just need the lavatory,” Aziraphale said, willing his voice not to crack. It did, but only a little, almost imperceptibly. Crowley picked up on it.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing onto Aziraphale’s wrist. 

“I need the lavatory,” Aziraphale said again, twisting to get free. Crowley let go. He stood up from the couch and began walking in the direction of the bathroom, his strides determined and quick. 

Crowley stared at his back, watching him retreat down the hall. He leaned back into the couch, sinking his head into the cushions. He looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes. He tugged at the Aziraphale folder that was inside of his brain and spilled out its contents. He sifted through them, examining each one. 

There was that time at the supermarket when Crowley had asked Aziraphale why he was so into spinach all of a sudden. There was that time not so long ago when Aziraphale had asked Crowley if he wanted to join Aziraphale for a walk. (“A walk?” Crowley had asked, incredulous. “Since when do you take walks?”) Then there was the tomato soup incident, and the time with the keto diet on Crowley’s phone -- and maybe there were other times when Aziraphale had made the face, too, that Crowley just hadn’t noticed. Still…

Still. Crowley didn’t know why Aziraphale seemed so down.

Crowley didn’t think of himself as thick -- he prided himself on being quite sharp, on the contrary -- but all this emotion stuff was not his forte. He wasn’t good at parcing together who felt like what and why, something he didn’t regret being bad at until now. 

Aziraphale was back from the bathroom. He stood in front of Crowley, waiting, Crowley supposed, for an invitation to sit. Crowley patted the couch next to him. Aziraphale sat, though rather rigidly. Crowley cleared his throat.

“Is something wrong, Angel?” he repeated the question he’d asked before, somewhat dumbly. Aziraphale didn’t answer.

“I suppose I should rephrase that,” Crowley said, trying again. “I can tell that something is wrong. I want to ask whether or not you’re willing to share.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, still sitting rigidly on the couch staring at the floor. 

“Well, will you?” Crowley asked, beginning to feel his throat tightening up. This was Aziraphale’s job, usually, this emotional prodding and pushing. It was exhausting. And, if Crowley was being honest, it was making him nervous, to be this vulnerable, to force Aziraphale to open up when he didn’t know what was inside Aziraphale’s mind. He forced himself to forge ahead. 

Aziraphale’s head was buzzing. He was nervous; he didn’t want to admit what was actually wrong to Crowley, didn’t want to risk being the recipient of that look Crowley sometimes did, that “you’re so stupid” look. 

But Aziraphale had been acting strange the past little while. He and Crowley had both sensed it; he knew he wasn’t good at hiding how he felt. 

And the way that Crowley was asking him if he was okay now, the way that Crowley was forcing them to talk about emotions which he usually hated doing… That was -- well, that was all it took for Aziraphale to crack.

“Recently I’ve been rather discontented,” Aziraphale started. He inhaled sharply. 

He could sense Crowley tense up, and that’s when it dawned on him that maybe Crowley thought that what had been making Aziraphale so down had been him -- and that’s when the words started to flow out.

“Not with you,” Aziraphale amended quickly. “No, not with you. I’ve been -- well, I’m rather large, aren’t I?”

Crowley eyed him warily. He didn’t respond.

“I’m not… I’m not slim. Which is fine. I mean -- it’s not fine -- but me not being slim isn’t the problem. It’s more so that I’m rather large. Quite large, in fact. Larger than the average man.”

Crowley began to open his mouth, which for some reason sent a spike of panic down Aziraphale’s spine. “Which is fine,” Aziraphale spat out. “I’m not… I’m not going to start acting like those humans you love to laugh at, counting calories like they’re sheep. I’ve just been trying to be more… conscious. Of my choices. Regarding food. And if I lose a few pounds from these new choices -- well then that’d hardly be a problem. That’s all.” 

Aziraphale exhaled, then worked up the nerve to look over at Crowley. He was lying on the couch, his face facing the ceiling, and from what Aziraphale could see of him, he looked dazed. 

Aziraphale swallowed. He waited. Crowley didn’t say anything.

“Well?” Aziraphale said, beginning to turn cross. “I’ve told you how I feel. Now it’s only fair for you to do the same.” 

“I --” Crowley started, then cut himself off. He sat up, reaching out to pull at Aziraphale’s arm. He tugged Aziraphale towards him. Aziraphale responded, though somewhat grudgingly, and then returned to their earlier position, their shoulders all smushed together. 

“I like the way you look,” Crowley said lamely. Aziraphale scoffed.

“Seriously, Angel. I think you look… I think you look good. You look like goodness. You are good.” Crowley swallowed, nervous.

“And I’m sorry if in the past I’ve -- if in the past I’ve made you think that I would laugh at you for wanting to… try out a diet. Your body is yours, and you can do with it what you’d like.” 

Aziraphale shuddered, which Crowley felt, so he wrapped his arm around Aziraphale, tugging him closer so their whole sides were touching.

Aziraphale was soft, but that’s what Crowley liked about him. Crowley liked everything about him. He didn’t like him because he was soft, or in spite of the fact he was soft, he just liked him. Full stop. He just liked Aziraphale, liked everything that Aziraphale was. 

Aziraphale still felt tense, which Crowley was determined to fix, so he kept on talking. 

“You’re good, Aziraphale. So good. And if you want to change the way you eat, fine. But don’t do it to spite yourself. Do it because -- because you want to. Because it makes you happy.” 

Aziraphale’s breathing started to sound rather wet, and Crowley realized he’d rather poke his own eyes out than continue being soft, so he opted for rubbing his unoccupied arm across Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and let his head rest on Crowley’s shoulder. A tear, which had been sitting in Aziraphale’s eye, leaked out and dripped down to his nose. Crowley wiped it away.

They didn’t say anything else, didn’t speak for a long time.

The circuit in Aziraphale’s head -- the one that always muttered the nasty things -- had finally turned off.

*** 

Aziraphale was trying on a shirt in the mirror.

An art gallery was having an opening nearby, an opportunity that he and Crowley had seized. They agreed to dress in their finest, go to the gallery, and then go out for dinner afterwards.

It was formal dates like these that made eternity feel a little less long, the pair had realized. Not that they wished for any less time together. 

Aziraphale turned his body, noticed the way it sat within the fabric. The mean circuit in his brain fired on again, and was about to spew something mean --

When Crowley came into the room, and looked at Aziraphale’s face, and knew exactly what was going on.

He walked over, kissed Aziraphale on the cheek, and told him that he looked dashing.

Then, silently, he pressed his mouth to Aziraphale’s ear. “You’re so good,” he whispered, making Aziraphale feel warm all over.

Aziraphale found the circuit in his brain. He shut it off. He put on his suit jacket, took Crowley’s hand, and walked towards the front door.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he told Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
